Broken Magic
by Copper Vixen
Summary: A wizard without his magic is nothing but a fragment of himself, but a wizard with the ability to gain unlimited magic has the potential to fragment the Wizarding World. DMHP. Slash
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all other characters and locations belong to J. K. Rowling.

 **Chapter One**

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It was like a form of torture. Slow and painful, each drawled word like a phantom fist to the gut. Lips pressed tightly together, Harry Potter squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fingers around the quill in his hand. He was vaguely aware of Professor Snape continuing to list potion ingredients from somewhere near the back of the chamber in a bored monotonous drawl. Exhaling slowly, Harry forced himself to return his gaze to the black board and the scrawling script that appeared with every word Snape spat. Still, with teeth grit, he began to copy the day's lesson plan. It was almost with a great sense of pride that he placed the final period after the word 'shredded', straightening in the chair to admire his ink stained parchment and its scrawled contents.

"When you've finished copying the instructions, you may move to the table with your appointed partner and begin assembling the necessary ingredients." Professor Severus Snape accompanied his final command with a wave of his wand, the movement causing a second list to appear on the board that divided the students from Slytherin and Gryffindor into pairs.

Harry didn't need to check the list to know who his partner would be. If nothing else, Snape had proven extremely predictable over the last six years when it came to pairing his beloved Slytherins with their Gryffindor counterparts. It had reached the point that the students didn't even waste their breath whinging or complaining to their housemates about their appointed partner; everyone just packed up their bags and moved to the chair at their partner's table. But not today, Harry thought in resignation. He turned his head and glared at the blond seated at the table diagonally from him, meeting Draco Malfoy's smug sneer with a slow wag of his head. He absolutely was not moving from the seat he'd claimed at the beginning of the year. Not only was he comfortable, but lately standing had sometimes proven to be the difference between whether or not he kept his breakfast securely within his stomach.

"Professor, Potter's refusing to partner me," Malfoy practically sang out. The blond's sneer turned into a triumphant smirk when Snape flew across the room to hover over the dark-haired Gryffindor menacingly.

Staring down his hooked nose at his least favourite student, Snape met Harry's gaze and placed a firm hand on the back of the chair the younger wizard occupied. "Is there a problem, Mister Potter? Or do you simply wish to complete this assignment by yourself later this evening during detention?"

"Why should I always have to move?" Harry demanded in a tone layered with enough insolence to cause a wave of whimpers to rise from the Gryffindor side of the classroom. He ignored Hermione's hissed warning and narrowed his eyes at Snape, slouching deeper in his chair in silent rebellion.

The Potions Master arched a brow and slowly released his grip on the back of the young wizard's chair. "You'll move to Mister Malfoy's table because Miss Parkinson needs your seat to partner Mister Weasley." Without a single word of warning, Snape brandished his wand and gave it a sharp flick, sending Harry and his chair skittering across the floor to the empty spot beside Draco. "Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry lurched sideways in the chair before desperately grabbing the seat with both hands. For a moment, he simply rocked from side to side, and then he leaned unceremoniously forward and spewed his morning oatmeal across Malfoy's books. He would of liked to have managed a smile at that point, or at the very least shoot a triumphant look at the cause of his current predicament, but he was too busy trying not to repeat the humiliating process to bother. With his eyes squeezed tightly closed, he lifted a hand slowly into the air. "Professor Snape? I'd like to be excused, please." Malfoy's overly loud groans of disgust rang in his already aching ears, forcing him to swallow repeatedly while rising unsteadily to his feet.

"Miss Granger, escort Mister Potter to the Hospital Wing," Snape muttered in a subdued voice. "And Mister Potter? Ten points from Gryffindor."

Harry didn't acknowledge the Potions Professor verbally, just gave a dismissive flutter of one hand as he staggered from the room. He managed to pry one eye open when an arm slid around his waist, his bleary gaze meeting that of a concerned Hermione as he teetered down the long dungeon corridor. "I missed the look on his face," he mumbled, trying not to lean too heavily on the witch. "Was he revolted?"

Hermione offered him a stiff smile while glancing anxiously ahead of them, obviously concerned about the steep staircase they were approaching. "Not quite as revolted as Malfoy. I believe you even managed to get those fancy new boots he was prancing about in this morning."

Harry managed a grin at that information, feeling entirely to pleased with himself. "Good," he said quietly. He pretended to be concentrating on every step he took, and not the look his friend was attempting to pin him with.

"Harry-"

"Forget it, Hermione," Harry grumbled, giving a brief shake of his head in hopes the witch would drop the sore topic she'd been poking at for the last month and a half. She wouldn't, though. Hermione had proven as persistent as Snape was predictable; a trait he'd once admired and now was beginning to loathe.

"You need to speak with Dumbledore, Harry, you can't keep going on like this. You're hardly eating and you've started to lose weight. Not to mention your grades have begun to suffer." Hermione stated her observations calmly, escorting her raven-haired Housemate carefully in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

"Dumbledore has more important things to worry about than my case of the flu," Harry argued. He tried to pull away from the witch but found the arm around his waist impossible to escape. With an inaudible sigh, he clamped his lips together and focused on the spiralling stairwell that would take them to Madam Pomfrey's domain. Still, he could understand Hermione's worry. Even he had begun to wonder if his sudden yet lingering illness wasn't the root of something more worrisome. He'd been concerned enough to glance at some of the older healing tomes in the library, but that had been a horrifying mistake. Not that perusing the pages of a book called 'Mysterious Maladies Through the Ages' had probably been the best option. No, Harry was certain he couldn't possibly have chosen a book with more gruesome pictures than the aforementioned text.

"You and I both know you don't have the flu," Hermione scoffed. She loosened her grip on his waist as they entered the bright yet silent Hospital Wing, following the shuffling wizard toward the bed he occupied seemingly more than he did his own. Pushing light brown hair away from her face, she glanced around the room in search of Madam Pomfrey, frowning when the nurse didn't appear at the sound of their voices. "I wonder where she could possibly be."

Dropping down onto one of the cushy cots, Harry slowly sprawled out, nearly groaning in relief at simply laying still. "You should get back to Potions, Hermione," he said as he draped an arm across his face. "I promise to stay right here until Pomfrey gets back." He listened to the witch shift anxiously from boot to boot before releasing a very unladylike snort and practically stomping from the room, leaving him lolling in blissful silence. With no nattering medical witch to break the peace of the chamber, Harry found himself drifting off to sleep.

It seemed like hours later when he sat up abruptly, blinking at both the brightness of the airy chamber and the sight of Dumbledore seated at the foot of the bed. With a steadying breath, he swiped a hand down his face and attempted a smile, the grin fading when the Headmaster frowned at him. "It was Snape's fault," he mumbled, swinging his booted feet to the floor. He nearly rolled his eyes at Dumbledore's sigh, the sound one of extreme disappointment. "Alright, it was mostly my fault - but he started it."

"My boy, when I spoke with you at the start of term, you agreed to stay out of trouble." Dumbledore said in a soft voice. He folded his hands across his abdomen, causing the light blue robes he wore to bunch as he leaned back in the chair. The frown he wore deepened at Harry's huff of annoyance, the sound a blatant dismissal of the Headmaster's obvious concern. "I know Professor Snape can be difficult at times-"

Recognizing the beginnings of what was probably going to be a long lecture which would require nothing more than the occasional look of contrition and head bob on his part, Harry pasted an apologetic look on his face and promptly tuned the Headmaster out. Everything Dumbledore was about to say was most likely something he'd already heard anyway. Since the incident in the Department of Mysteries, he'd received many long talks. He'd received quiet words of wisdom from members of the Order, and solemn suggestions on how to cope with the loss of Sirius. From his closest friends, moments of quiet comfort and jovial reminiscing of time spent with his Godfather at Grimmauld Place. And through all of those friendly chats, he'd sat silently with a small smile on his face and guilt warring within his mind. Of course, all that guilt had been tempered by grief; grief that had eaten away at him all summer.

"Harry?"

Harry jerked his attention back to the Headmaster, widening his eyes in silent query when the frown the old wizard wore deepened. "Sorry, sir. I was just thinking about Sirius," Harry murmured, an excuse that he'd used often enough over the last two months that it leapt readily to his lips. For a moment he thought Dumbledore would launch back into his monologue, but instead the Headmaster simply sat back in his chair and gazed at him thoughtfully. Harry stared back, one hand lifting to fiddle absently at his sternum, the movement drawing Dumbledore's blue eyes downward.

"I'm glad to see you wearing your birthday gift. It would have made Lily very happy, as well." Albus said softly as he pressed to his feet. He paused with one hand resting on the back of the chair he'd occupied, his knowing gaze pinning Harry in place. "Please do try and keep out of trouble, my boy, at least until the end of the semester." With a nod and a smile, Dumbledore turned and wandered from the Hospital wing.

Harry watched the Headmaster vanish out the doorway, his fingers knotting around the engagement ring he wore on a chain around his neck. The small package had arrived on his birthday, carried by a school owl and accompanied by a note from Dumbledore. He'd not kept the scrap of parchment, had glanced at it only long enough to confirm the origins of the gift before tearing into the carefully folded brown paper. The small box had raised an eyebrow, the narrow band of gold studded with a single emerald and inscribed with the message 'L & J forever' enough to reduce him to tears. When he'd recovered from the bout of weeping, he had dug an old chain from the corner of a drawer and threaded it through the band before pulling it over his head. Now, wherever he went, he carried that piece of his parent's love against his heart.

"Drink this, Mister Potter." Madame Pomfrey commanded, appearing at his elbow with a vial of something purple and smelling suspiciously of flowers.

The raven-haired wizard jumped at the nurse's arrival, dropping the ring he'd been rubbing and grasping the vial that was thrust into his hands. He stared doubtfully at the potion, giving it a cautious sniff before shooting a dubious glance at Pomfrey. "I really am feeling much better," Harry announced, attempting to hand the vial back to the witch watching him like an overly hungry owl. When the nurse crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow, the Gryffindor responded by heaving a disgusted sigh and quickly downing the contents of the narrow cylinder. He sputtered once before offering Pomfrey a winsome smile and sliding off the cot, thrusting the vial into her hands and scampering from the chamber. Free of the Hospital Wing, he clattered down the stairs, surprised at how well he actually felt. That nap had really done it for him.

Nearly humming out loud, he turned a corner and slid to a stop, emerald orbs landing on the lithe form of Malfoy slinking down the corridor. Without a second thought, he ducked back around the corner and placed his shoulders against the wall, peeping carefully around the heavy stone to watch the Slytherin vanish down a distant hallway. For a moment he hesitated, Dumbledore's most recent lecture ringing in his ears, but then he was quietly trailing after Malfoy. If the blond never saw him, he reasoned, they wouldn't fight. And if they didn't fight, Dumbledore would never know that Harry had deliberately ignored his warning to stay out of trouble, rather that he'd done quite the opposite. Feeling extremely pleased with himself, he continued to follow the other wizard through the maze that was Hogwarts, silently wishing for his invisibility cloak as he ducked around corners and slipped behind statues.

He was surprised when Malfoy drew to a halt outside an unadorned section of wall, his brow furrowing until a pair of doors slowly appeared within the stone. The Room of Requirement, he realized, glancing around the section of hallway he cowered in. He hadn't noticed when they'd entered this area of the castle, to absorbed in following Malfoy to pay attention to their exact whereabouts in Hogwarts. Curiosity heightening, he watched with narrowed eyes as the blond vanished through the doors, his mind churning with the possibilities. The Room of Requirement had an endless number of uses; its interior changing to meet the needs of the person requiring its use at that given moment. Which, again, meant Malfoy could be doing possibly anything within its walls.

Harry really didn't have a chance to ponder whether or not he should follow the Slytherin, as the doors that had appeared so suddenly began to disappear amidst the stone. Chancing one final glance up and down the hallway, he darted the short distance across the corridor and practically flung one of the doors open. He nearly released a triumphant whoop at finding the area just inside the portal empty, though he couldn't say the same about the rest of the room. Piles of broken and discarded chairs formed towers that appeared to sway ever so gently, while stacks of books arced toward the high ceiling of the room. Things were heaped haphazardly about the chamber for as far as he could see, the towers and mountains separated by a series of narrow and winding paths that lead further into the depths of the Room of Requirement. And somewhere, wandering within the piles of forgotten belongings, was Malfoy.

Standing just within the doors, Harry began to wonder if this really was a good idea - if Malfoy happened to murder him, Ron and Hermione might never find his body. Still, he thought as he glanced cautiously around the cluttered area, he'd already come this far, what was a few more steps in the scheme of things? Choosing the path that disappeared around a table stacked with chipped and broken teacups, Harry prowled deeper into the seemingly endless chamber, his boots scuffing lightly upon the dusty stone floor. With the way his luck had been recently, he'd never locate the blond in the tangled labyrinth. Wondering if he should just turn around now and save himself the hassle of having to explain to Hermione where he'd been for the last five hours, he turned a sharp corner and froze. Standing not fifteen feet away from him, and apparently completely absorbed in rifling through the contents scattered across the surface of an old desk, was his nemesis.

Practically holding his breath, the dark-haired wizard took a short step backwards and ducked behind a leaning tower of cauldrons fortified with several tired looking brooms. He stood perfectly still for a moment, waiting for Malfoy to suddenly appear in front of him with his wand in hand, but the blond failed to materialize before him. Smirking triumphantly, Harry eased slowly to the right and peered around the smooth handle of an ancient Cleansweep. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the Slytherin holding an old Snitch within his fingers, the small golden orb frantically flapping its one remaining wing. Frowning in confusion, he continued to stare at Malfoy's back, trying to determine what use the Slytherin could possibly have with a broken snitch. His gaze was drawn back to the golden ball when the waving wing began to slow, its harried flapping fading until the fragile piece of magic and metal dangled listlessly from the sphere.

Harry's stomach chose that moment to cramp. The sharp spasm nearly sent him to his knees, was strong enough to cause him to release a sharp gasp and grab desperately at the wall of cauldrons he hid behind. Unfortunately, his reaching hand brushed the bent bristles of one of the leaning brooms, sending it toppling to the floor. He may as well of knocked the entire tower of cauldrons over, because the clatter of wood on stone echoed loudly in the cavernous chamber. Closing his eyes, Harry cursed inwardly at himself while pressing a hand firmly against his stomach, trying not to repeat his performance from Potions.

"Ah, Potter," Malfoy sneered, "I was hoping to . . . meet up with you later." The implication contained within that short, mildly spoken statement was easily understood.

Prying his eyes open, Harry lifted his chin and met the Slytherin's gaze, not liking the gleam within the silver orbs. "Malfoy," he returned, forcing himself to straighten. "Is this about those boots?" He slid his hand back, fumbling in the folds of his robes for his wand. His fingers had just brushed the length of wood within his pocket when his wrist was seized and yanked free of the cloth, the abrupt movement sending him stumbling back into the stack of cauldrons. For one long second, the tower simply swayed, and then it fell. The ringing of metal on stone sent Harry to his knees, his hands pressed tightly against his ears as the sharp sounds ricochetted about the room. When the ringing finally faded to nothingness, he slowly cracked his eyes open and peered at the mess, finding Malfoy standing well beyond the range of the falling cauldrons.

"Wherever did you get that cheap bauble you're wearing about your neck?" The Slytherin asked abruptly.

Gaze snapping, Harry curled his fingers around his mother's ring and stood. "It belonged to my mum," he hissed, not liking the expression the Slytherin wizard wore. Perhaps now would be a good time to retreat, he thought, taking a shuffling step in what he hoped was the direction of the exit. The sudden appearance of Malfoy's wand had him reaching for his own once again, his fingers curling around the length of wood and slowly easing it from his pocket.

"Give it to me," Malfoy commanded. The blond gave a warning flick of the tip of his wand, lips curled into a sneer.

"Fuck off," Harry returned, leveling his own wand on the Slytherin. They stood like that for a long moment, glaring at each other, waiting for the other to make a move. But in the end, it was Harry who broke first. With a quick flick of his wand, he shouted, "Expelliarmus!" A triumphant smile curved his lips when Malfoy's wand slapped forcefully against his palm, his fingers tightening victoriously around the handle. He was so distracted by his easy defeat of the Slytherin that he failed to notice Malfoy shifting forward, the blond closing the short distance between them in a few long strides. Harry back pedalled frantically to avoid wildly grabbing hands, his heel catching the shaft of a broom, sending him tumbling backwards. The force of his skull connecting with the floor rattled his teeth, the air spilling from his lungs in a noisy huff. As stars danced behind his eyes, he felt cool digits pry his fingers apart and deftly remove his wand from his grasp. The same treatment was received by his left hand, his desperately clenching fingers peeled off the length of wood before being released. When he managed to lift his lids, he found the Slytherin standing over him, Malfoy's attention once again focused on his chest.

"I think I'll be taking this, Potter." The Slytherin purred, hooking his finger beneath the chain Harry wore and slowly lifting it until his fingers reached the golden ring dangling at the apex. "We'll consider it payment for those boots you ruined this morning." A sharp snap filled the air when the blond's long digits closed around the band, the sound heralding a stream of angry swear words as Malfoy shook the sting from his fingers and glared down at the raven-haired Gryffindor. "Your 'mothers' my arse."

Harry, wagging his head in a desperate attempt to clear it, tried to sit up only to have one of the blond's boots land on his sternum. "Fuck off," he bit out for the second time, curling fingers around Malfoy's ankle and shoving. His attempts were futile, the blond having both the upper hand and both of their wands.

Draco ignored the demand, his full attention centered on the chain and ring. With much concentration, the Slytherin leveled his wand on the pendant and murmured a single word. Metal groaned in protest before surrendering, the chain snapping, sending the ring rolling across the floor only to vanish beneath the twisted pile of brooms and cauldrons. The blond seemed slightly put out by the loss of his trophy, a small moue of displeasure crossing his features. That expression underwent a drastic change when his gaze returned to Harry's face, silver eyes widening perceptibly and his mouth dropping open in surprise. Just as quickly, that shocked expression was smoothed away, replaced by one of gleeful delight. "Gullible Gryffindor," he whispered.

Harry stopped jerking at Malfoy's pant leg as his mouth went dry, the look on the Slytherin's face more than worrisome. Nerves thrumming and heart pounding in his ears, he glanced around in search of a weapon, near desperation making him grasp the shaft of the closest broom. He managed one good swing that nearly connected with the blond's cheek only to have the other end seized and ripped from his grasp. "Get off, you stupid prat!" Harry growled, hands returning to Malfoy's ankle.

Draco snorted, glancing back over his shoulder in the direction of the desk and its plethora of contents. Unexpectedly, he removed his foot and quickly danced beyond Harry's reach, leaving the Gryffindor laying in surprised silence on the floor. "As delightful as this has been, Potter, it's time for dinner." The blond began to walk away, halting alongside the desk to carefully lift an object from the clutter.

Harry, gaze on Malfoy's turned back, scrambled to his feet and swatted his robes into place. "My wand, Malfoy," he called across the short distance. He couldn't help but flinch when the blond swung around on the heel of one boot, the motion of the other wizard's arm lifting his hands reflexively. The object that dropped into his open palms wasn't his wand, however, rather it was an old discoloured tiara. He had one second of confusion as he stared at the trinket before pain exploded within his skull. He dropped to his knees as his blood seemed to boil within his veins, bright lights sparking behind his eyes. Gasping for breath, he tried to release the tiara, but his fingers refused to let go. As fireworks exploded within his skull and his heart raced within his chest, he slowly folded over, his forehead dropping to rest against the cool stone. And then it was over.

His fingers loosened, the tiara slipping from his grasp to clunk lightly against the stone. Breathing deeply, Harry slowly eased his eyes open, relieved to find himself alone. Whatever Malfoy had done, he certainly hadn't stuck around to see the consequences of his actions. Carefully, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, casting his gaze around the small clearing. Except for the knot of brooms and cauldrons he was seated among, he was most definitely alone. With a groan, he rose to his feet and began to pick his way back to the path he'd travelled down earlier, stopping every now and then to listen to a soft whisper of movement from the depths of the Room of Requirement. He was surprised at how dark the chamber had become, the fading light of early evening passing through the row of windows lining the uppermost reaches of the walls. He could have wept when he turned a corner and found himself standing in front of the large set of doors that marked the entrance of the room.

"Sodding Slytherin," Harry grumbled to himself. He tossed one final glance over his shoulder before fleeing the chamber. As he stomped back to the Gryffindor Common Room, rubbing his still tingling palms together, he supposed he'd gotten exactly what he deserved. For once, he should have listened to Dumbledore. He should have smiled and nodded at the Headmaster and skipped back to Gryffindor to join Hermione in whatever studious activity she was absorbed in. Yes, he thought with a snort, he'd fucked up royally. When he slipped through the Fat Lady's Portrait, it was to find Hermione and Ron sitting on one of the scarlet sofas, both wearing expressions of extreme concern that vanished at his appearance.

"Finally, we can go to dinner," Ron said, shooting to his feet. The redhead was practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of eating, his eagerness earning him a look of disapproval from the still seated witch.

Hermione, arms crossed and lips pursed, glared at the raven-haired wizard. "Where have you been?" She asked, her voice edged with steel.

Harry mentally scrambled for an answer, not liking the knowing gleam in the witch's eyes. He could say the Hospital Wing, but he had a pretty good feeling the pair had probably been there earlier to check up on him. "Dumbledore," he almost yelled, the yelp causing both Ron and Hermione to flinch. "I was speaking with Dumbledore. Another long talk about . . . Sirius."

"Well, you certainly look better," Hermione said approvingly. "You should have gone and seen Madame Pomfrey weeks ago." Opinion given, the bushy-haired witch rose and strode toward the portrait, Ron falling in alongside her like an excited puppy. She paused on the landing outside the portal, arching a single brow at finding Harry still standing in the middle of the Common Room.

"Come on, Harry," Ron called. The redhead was already halfway down the stairs, his expression expectant.

Harry, having been in this exact situation many times before, turned and plodded after the duo. He had grown to hate meal times, especially those at Hogwarts. His suddenly weak stomach had proven a trial, turning most forays into the Great Hall into a test of endurance. Still, he supposed he should try and eat something. Perhaps there would be soup tonight, maybe chicken noodle or pea. His stomach growled in agreement and he lengthened his strides to fall into step beside Hermione, giving the witch what he hoped was a charming smile. "I really am feeling much better."

"I hope so, Harry, because I'd hate to have to drag you back to the Hospital Wing," Hermione said in a soft voice. The witch smiled widely and linked her arm through the wizard's, hauling him closer as they passed into the Great Hall. "And the next time you want to lie to me about where you've been, at least be creative."

Harry swallowed, acknowledging the unspoken threat. "I really did speak with Dumbledore," he muttered before pasting a wide grin on his face as the Gryffindors that had been in Potions that morning erupted into applause. Giving a small wave, he scanned the numerous platters scattered the length of the table as he followed Ron to an open section of table. He should try and eat something, he supposed, ignoring the fact that his mouth was practically watering at the delicious smells wafting from the steaming dishes. In fact, as his stomach gave a heavy growl, he readily admitted he was starving. He found himself reaching for the nearest platter before his arse had even settled on the bench, nearly knocking a pitcher of juice into Ron's lap in the process. He was busily shovelling food into his mouth seconds later, remembering how much he loved mashed potatoes while ignoring the startled looks his housemates were giving him.

That night, as he lay draped across his bed with his hands resting on his overly full stomach, Harry remembered something. Malfoy still had his wand. A groan escaped him and he thumped his head back against his pillow, hating his life – and Malfoy. "Fucking Slytherin," he muttered to himself. At least tomorrow was Saturday; he had all weekend to figure out how to coerce Malfoy into returning his wand to him. With a sigh, the dark-haired wizard rolled over and yanked the crimson duvet over his head, wondering what the chances of regaining his wand without a fight actually were.

* * *

A/n: Ladies and gents, the first chapter of my newest baby. I know, maybe a little confusing, and there are probably loads of questions, but it's to early to give the game away.


	2. The Broom Shed

**DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all other characters and locations belong to J. K. Rowling.**

Chapter Two - The Broom Shed

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At this time of the morning, on a Saturday of all days, the library was dead, which was exactly what Harry wished he was. He smothered a yawn against the back of his wrist, the tip of the quill he held in his other hand drawing long swooping swirls across the bottom of the empty parchment stretched before him. Luckily enough, he'd failed to dip the tip minutes ago, meaning the trailing point of the quill left nothing but faint scratches on the creamy paper. Blinking heavy eyes, Harry settled his chin in his palm and stared at his companion across the width of the table. He still didn't exactly know how Hermione had talked him into this, because he was almost positive he hadn't agreed to get up at the crack of dawn to work on an assignment that wasn't due for another five days.

And where was Ron? Harry asked himself, glancing at the empty chair next to his. How had the redhead managed to avoid this cruel form of torture? He shifted his gaze back to Hermione, studying the bushy-haired witch as she busily scribbled away. "Why isn't Ron here?" He demanded, sounding extremely whiny even to his ears.

Hermione didn't look up, just paused momentarily in her writing before carefully dipping her quill and resuming her work. "Ron obviously isn't as committed to his education as you are," she replied, finally lifting both her quill and her chin. Her gaze met Harry's across the table, one brow lifting at the expression on her companion's face. "He also wasn't moaning into his mashed potatoes in apparent ecstasy when I invited the pair of you to the library this morning."

Harry's face went bright red and he immediately began to sputter in indignation. "I was not," he snapped defensively, quickly scanning the surrounding tables for anyone who appeared to be eavesdropping. Finding the closest desks vacant, the dark-haired wizard whipped back around and leaned forward in his chair. "I was not," he repeated in a much calmer voice. At least not that he remembered.

"If that's how you want to remember it," Hermione said with a smile. The witch laid her quill down alongside the parchment and slowly straightened her back, stretching her arms over head. "I'm happy to see you feeling better, Harry." She reached out and gave his hand a light pat before picking her quill back up and giving it a small twirl, the indigo feather fluttering lightly at the movement.

Harry, unsure of how to respond, smiled through his teeth and reached out to dip his quill into the bottle of black ink sitting in the center of the table. Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance and bumped the small bottle, sending the dark liquid inside sloshing over the lip of the glass to pool lazily on the wood. "Sorry," he exclaimed, reaching for the pocket he normally kept his wand in. He patted his robes frantically, and then the events of yesterday afternoon all came rushing back. With a heavy groan, he dropped his forehead onto the tabletop, enjoying the thud and brief rush of pain that provided a momentary sort of relief from real life. And then he sat up and stared at his gaping companion. "I have to go."

"What?" Hermione asked in surprise, giving her own wand a quick wave that had the creeping ink vanishing. She watched in confusion as Harry shot to his feet and began jamming his books into his bag. "Where are you going?"

Harry froze in the process of trying to cram his book into his bag, staring blankly at the witch before resuming his harried packing. An excuse, he needed an excuse for his sudden departure. Preferably something believable that wouldn't raise any questions – like how Malfoy had come to possess his wand. "Breakfast." He practically yelled at Hermione. The frown that blossomed across the witch's face had him drawing a deep breath and replying in a much quieter voice. "I'm going to go and get something to eat. Feeling quite peckish, you know."

"Oh," Hermione replied, biting her lip as she looked down at her nearly finished assignment. "Well-"

"That's great, I'll save you a seat." Harry mumbled, giving up on shoving the book into his bag and jamming it under his arm as he fled the library. He practically ran to the Great Hall, silently praying he'd beat Malfoy there and not have to confront the blond in front of half the student population of Hogwarts. Unfortunately, he arrived just in time to watch Malfoy saunter into the large hall, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle. Harry spent a second silently cursing before trotting after the trio of Slytherins, halting between the massive doors to scan the interior of the Great Hall. His shoulders slumped in relief at finding only a handful of students seated at each House table, a much smaller audience then he'd been anticipating. Shooting a predatory look at Malfoy, the dark-haired wizard dumped his bag and book off at the Gryffindor table before whirling around and marching across the hall.

He gathered the renowned courage he was supposed to possess as he entered enemy territory, noting that his approach wasn't going unnoticed. Swallowing, he lifted his chin and halted just beyond the second line of benches, ignoring the almost tangible wave of animosity that greeted his arrival. "Malfoy, a word, if you please," he said politely. He balled his hands into fists when the blond lifted a single brow in response to the question, knowing that whatever came out of the Slytherin's mouth would most likely begin an argument and end with them both in detention.

Draco, staring intently at the Gryffindor, gracefully lifted his teacup to his lips and took a precise sip. When he lowered the dainty porcelain cup with its intricately swirling Slytherin emblem, it was to answer the request in a tone as precise as that carefully measured sip. "No." His reply earned him a series of snickers from the handful of students seated around him, but it was the Gryffindor's muted growl that had him leaning forward.

"What?" Harry spat, taking an unintentional step forward.

"No," Draco repeated, exaggerating the pronunciation of the word. Both brows arched as the raven-haired Gryffindor sputtered in apparent disbelief, taking obvious pleasure in his foe's upset. "You asked for a word and 'no' is the word I'm giving you." His lips curled upward, a baring of teeth easily misconstrued for a smile. The surrounding Slytherins laughed in delight, their loud guffaws drawing the attention of the other students enjoying an early breakfast.

Shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder, Harry took a step forward and placed his palms firmly down on the tabletop, nearly overturning a jug of pumpkin juice in the process. "You have something of mine and I want it back," he hissed angrily. He ignored the interested looks that suddenly appeared on the faces of Malfoy's companions, choosing instead to lean threateningly closer to the blond. "And I want it now."

Draco appeared nearly ecstatic at the demand. Leaning forward, the blond placed his elbows on the table and took another delicate sip of tea as he peered at Potter. "I have no idea as to what you're referring too," he said.

"My wand!" Harry bellowed, slamming balled fists against the tabletop. The impact rattled dishes and sent juice lapping at the edges of the closest pitchers. It also brought a sudden wave of silence to the Great Hall, an almost tangible quiet as if every individual in the massive chamber was holding their breath. That overwhelming silence caught Harry's attention, making him realize what he'd just done. Undoubtedly, he'd just raised many eyebrows and more than a few questions. Drawing a deep breath, he slowly began to straighten, stilling when Malfoy returned his teacup to its saucer.

"This wand?" Draco purred, producing Potter's wand from the draping sleeve of his robe. He dangled the eleven inches of holly just beyond the Gryffindor's reach, giving it a taunting twirl that caused the dark-haired wizard's face to flush. "But how could I possibly have come to possess your wand?" The Slytherin slowly lowered the dangling wand until the very tip rested between a plate of bacon and a large bowl of oatmeal, giving it another pointed turn that dragged a deep growl from the Gryffindor.

Harry lunged forward, his hand closing just below Malfoy's on the shaft of the wand. What occurred next was a small tug of war that threatened to send one or both wizards sprawling across the crowded surface of the table. It was a battle that was short-lived, halted by the loud clearing of a throat from just behind Harry. Both males stiffened at the sound, though neither of them released their grip on the wand or bothered to look away from the individual across from them.

"Mister Potter. Mister Malfoy. Would one of you care to explain what's going on?"

Harry could hear the exasperation in McGonagall's voice, could imagine the hard-pressed expression on her face as she stared in bewilderment at the back of his head. Of course, even he could imagine the picture he and Malfoy presented: the Slytherin and Gryffindor once again squabbling over seemingly nothing. "Professor," Harry muttered through grit teeth, fingers tightening on the shaft of his wand. "I was just about to go and find Hermione."

"And yet somehow you've found the Slytherin Table . . . and Mister Malfoy." McGonagall returned, clearly nonplussed with Harry's story. The Transfiguration Professor moved closer to the Gryffindor student, peering over his shoulder, apparently curious over exactly what the two were fighting, and nearly heaved a displeased sigh at finding them both clutching the same wand. "Who's wand is that?"

"Mine," Harry said quickly, shooting Malfoy a triumphant look. A look that vanished when the Slytherin met his gaze and smiled slowly.

"It's mine, Professor," the blond replied. Widening his eyes innocently, Draco pasted the most apologetic look he could possibly manage on his face and tried not to gloat too obviously.

Minerva McGonagall couldn't contain the sigh that finally escaped her mouth. With a glance of longing in the direction of the Head Table, she extended an arm over Harry's shoulder and held out her flattened palm, giving a small wiggle of her fingers as the duo stared uncomprehendingly at her hand. "The wand, if you please," she said calmly.

Draco, obviously noting the expression of extreme weariness the Transfiguration Professor was currently wearing and fearing the possible repercussions, released his grip on the wand immediately. The blond then watched in unexpected delight as Harry staggered backwards and slammed into McGonagall, who in turn stumbled backwards only to collapse upon the bench at the Ravenclaw Table – which rocked dangerously on two legs before settling. Yelps and screeches from the handful of students seated on the bench were nearly lost in the crashing of platters and silverware on the stone floor, the cacophony drawing the attention of every individual currently in the Great Hall.

Harry, still clutching his wand, felt very much crying. Instead, he hung his head in mortification and slowly turned around, cringing at the sight before him. With her arms draped across the table and her bottom hanging in limbo, the Transfiguration Professor couldn't possibly appear anymore uncomfortable, and yet frighteningly serene. Scrambled eggs were slopped in her lap, the platter they'd occupied on the floor at her feet. The draping sleeves of her robes were soaking up the rivulets of orange juice that were creeping along the tabletop. But it was her hat that had Harry taking a retreating step, the urge to run warring with the need to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness high as he watched the plumed cap slowly sink deeper in a large pitcher of maple syrup. "Sorry-"

"It would be in your best interest to remain quiet at this moment, Potter." McGonagall stated, somehow managing to sound calm. The expression upon her face remained oddly pleasant as a trio of Ravenclaws hauled her to her feet, though it began to darken as her favourite cap was offered to her by the tip of the drooping feather. She stared at the hat for one long minute before carefully accepting the sticky mess, her gaze rising to meet that of the Gryffindor cowering before her. "I'll see you in the Transfiguration Classroom in thirty minutes, Mister Potter."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," Harry mumbled. His hands balled into fists at the soft snicker that emanated from behind him, Malfoy's enjoyment of the entire situation enough to set the dark-haired-wizard's teeth on edge. He was seconds away from whipping around and levelling his wand on the blond when McGonagall's voice rang out, the words bringing a satisfied smirk to his face.

"And I'll expect you, Mister Malfoy, ten minutes after that." Turning on the heel of one boot, McGonagall began to slog away but came to a squelching halt. She stood there for a moment, a small puddle forming beneath the feathered cap dangling from her fingertips before she spun abruptly around and glared angrily at the duo. "Just once I would like the pair of you to get along! For my sanity, just once." The aggravated sound that followed the statement was oddly feline, and heralded the Professor's brisk departure from the Great Hall.

It was a heavy silence that filled the massive chamber after the Transfiguration Professor's exit; one of which Harry was very aware of. Deciding that perhaps now would be the most opportune time for retreat, the dark-haired wizard turned on the heel of one boot and began a solemn march back to the Gryffindor Table. He had just skirted the head of the Ravenclaw Table when Malfoy's angered screech caused him to still, his chin dropping to his chest in quiet acceptance. The argument which was about to occur was inevitable, after all.

"This is your fault, Potter!" Draco snarled, slamming his palms down on the Slytherin Table hard enough to make the closest dishes jump. The students seated nearest him shifted on the benches, putting space between themselves and the enraged wizard, not wanting to be caught in the crossfire of this newest battle. "Potter!"

Harry cringed at the clatter of silverware on porcelain, his hands knotting at the sound of sheer fury in the Slytherin's voice. He lifted his chin and prepared to turn around, freezing when his eyes locked with Hermione's. The Gryffindor witch stood several feet away from him, her bag dangling from her fingertips and the expression of disappointment she wore rivalling that of the one McGonagall had worn on her departure. He supposed he should just tuck his chin back down and slink over to the Gryffindor side of the Hall, and he may have done exactly that if Malfoy had chosen that moment to sit down and shut up. But the blond did neither, and Harry reacted accordingly. "If you had just given me my wand back, none of this would be happening. So this, Malfoy, is all your fault."

Draco straightened and gasped incredulously, appearing extremely offended by Harry's snarled comment. "You don't even deserve to have a wand, you mudlood-loving-freak." The hissed insult caused an audible rash of gasps to echo around the Great Hall, and Malfoy revelled in every one of them.

Harry would have charged back around the Ravenclaw Table if it weren't for Hermione's hand on his shoulder, the Gryffindor witch's grip keeping him pinned to the spot. His nails bit into his palms and his body practically vibrated with barely contained rage. Unable to react as he would have loved too, he allowed his anger to boil over and opened his mouth on a wordless shriek. Though he never made a sound, a sharp crack rang out and Malfoy's head snapped to the left. Before his eyes, and the eyes of everyone in the Hall, a scarlet stain blossomed across Malfoy's cheek. Harry's mouth snapped closed as he stared in horror at the creeping splash of crimson, his heart beginning a slow spiral into his stomach. He'd just assaulted Draco Malfoy with wandless magic. He was dead.

Lifting a hand to gingerly probe his stinging cheek, Draco stared in growing fascination at Potter. The blow had been quite unexpected; in fact, he doubted even the wizard who had dealt it had gotten past envisioning it before it had occurred. Narrowing silver eyes, Draco dropped his hand to caress the pocket that held his wand, obviously considering drawing the length of wood. But there was a time and place for everything, and here and now was not it. "This is a petty argument in which I'm choosing to no longer participate," the Slytherin announced. With a disdainful sniff, he reclaimed his seat and lifted his teacup from its saucer, ignoring the room full of students silently staring at him in confusion.

Harry's brow furrowed and he turned his head to look at Hermione, mouthing the words Malfoy had used to just casually end what could have been a marvellous fight. The witch, however, appeared less concerned about the Slytherin wizard's sudden turnabout and more focused on his current predicament. And wasn't this, Harry thought, a wonderful way to start his Saturday. After the lecture McGonagall had given him, the dressing down he was about to receive from Hermione was going to be the icing on the cupcake.

"A bit peckish?" Hermione hissed, her fingers digging into Harry's shoulder. "Were you planning on saving me a seat at the Slytherin Table, or the Gryffindor Table?" She released him with a sharp shake of her head and stormed away, leaving the raven-haired wizard to follow at her heels.

Perfect, Harry thought glumly as he trailed after Hermione, he'd managed to infuriate one of his best friend's, his sworn nemesis, and his Head of House all within a matter of minutes. If Ron had been there to complete the package, he could have spent the remainder of his day sulking in solitude. But nope, the redhead was just now wandering into the Great Hall with a sunny smile on his face looking none-the-wiser. "He started it, Hermione," Harry called after the witch, nearly flinching at the glare she shot him over her shoulder. He halted at the Gryffindor table next to Ron, the pair of them watching as Hermione stomped from the hall.

"What did I miss?" Ron asked, glancing at Harry. The redhead seemed rather unconcerned with Hermione's angry exit; instead his focus was seemingly on the fact that he'd missed something interesting.

"Malfoy and I destroyed McGonagall's favourite hat," Harry muttered. He turned around and flopped down on the bench, ignoring the curious gazes of his housemates. Instead, he blindly reached for the nearest platter, heaping scrambled eggs onto his plate until he could no longer see the metal beneath the yellow mound. Then, he picked up a gold fork and preceded to simply stare at the plateful, his stomach beginning a slow roll in protest. The appetite that had returned last night had vanished just as quickly, leaving him feeling nothing but disgust at the veritable feast before him. With a low groan, he pushed the plate aside and dropped his forehead to the tabletop, attempting to ignore the bile-inducing smell of scrambled eggs.

"That git," Ron mumbled around a sausage. "It was probably his fault, too."

Harry didn't think the statement required an actual reply, so he simply nodded his head as best he could while examining the wood of the tabletop. He wished he could go back to this morning, to that moment when he was laying in bed still half-asleep staring at the crimson canopy above him, simply marvelling at the life he was living. Rather then in the here and now, where he was merely waiting for the minutes to pass so he could report to McGonagall for the detention du jour.

"You were up early," Ron said, nudging the dark-haired wizard with a boney elbow.

Harry grunted at the comment, figuring the non-verbal response was adequate. He lifted his forehead from the top of the table minutes later and dragged his hands down his face before rising to his feet. "I'm going to drop my bag off in the dorm room before reporting to Professor McGonagall," he grumbled. "I'll catch up with you when I've done my time." Forcing a smile at the redhead's consoling rumbles, he plodded from the Great Hall. He, in fact, plodded all the way up to the Gryffindor Common Room and then back down.

Harry then dragged his feet all the way to the Transfiguration Classroom. It was just his luck, he thought, to get detention on a Saturday – the unwritten day of studious procrastination. The single most exalted day of the week, which all little witches and wizards spent in frivolous merriment and overall gaiety free from the responsibilities of life; until Sunday happened, that soul stealing bitch. Heaving a sigh and mourning the loss of his Saturday, Harry slumped his way through the door into McGonagall's classroom. He scuffed his way all the way up to the front of the chamber before halting before the Professor's desk, his attention firmly on the toes of his beat up trainers. It seemed like a lifetime of waiting before McGonagall finally addressed him, her tone laced with enough disappointment to make him cringe.

"Mister Potter, it's Saturday, and I'm beginning to wish very much that I had remained in my chambers for an extra twenty minutes rather than take an early breakfast." Minerva McGonagall stared over the rims of her glasses, watching the young wizard practically sink into stone floor beneath her gaze. To further make her point, she produced the feathered cap she'd jauntily worn for as long as she could remember, placing it on the desk before her. The once proud chapeau sat limp upon the dragon skin blotter, the dark satin stained unforgivably and the feather splintered and matted. For a long moment the pair simply stared at the hat, one in fond reminiscence and the other with a growing sense of dread. "But here we are . . . again."

"Yes, Professor," Harry agreed, because even he was clever enough to realize that saying anything else at that point might have unimaginable consequences.

"And as it is Saturday, and because I have no wish to spend my free time watching you preform even the most mundane and repetitive task I could possibly imagine," the Transfiguration Professor pronounced, reaching a hand out to stroke the air lovingly over the crumpled cap. "You shall spend the day with Madame Hooch, who I believe has some mundane and repetitive task for you to perform in my absence."

Harry had to bite his lip to hide the sudden smile that threatened to overtake his features. Detention with Madame Hooch? Perhaps his luck was finally changing. Not only was he not going to have to spend the day groveling before his Head of House, but chances were high he was going to spend his day on the quidditch pitch – and Harry couldn't think of a better way to spend a Saturday. Suppressing the urge to thank the Professor profusely, Harry coughed lightly to clear his throat and lifted his chin. "Yes, Professor." Somehow the words managed to sound contrite rather than cheerful, though considering the expression on McGonagall's face, he was quite certain she wasn't at all fooled.

"Off you go, Mister Potter." The Transfiguration Professor ordered, dismissing Harry with a flutter of one hand.

Harry managed to restrain himself from skipping from the classroom, walking sedately out the door with his head hanging and his feet dragging until he was well beyond the Professor's line of sight. Then, and only then, did he allow a triumphant smirk to curve his lips. He'd just been given the best detention of his Hogwarts career. Still smiling, he turned a corner and ran headlong into Malfoy, the impact sending them both stumbling backwards. When he recovered his balance and straightened, he found a wand tucked beneath his chin. His gaze ran the length of wood and elegant fingers all the way up the Slytherin's arm to the pale slash of teeth visible between parted teeth. "I dare you." He breathed, aware of McGonagall's opened door just around the corner.

"Tempting, Potter, very tempting," Draco replied in a velvety purr. He slid the tip of his wand from the dark haired wizard's throat and stepped past him. "Later, perhaps." With one final sneer, the blond vanished around the corner.

Shoulder's slumping in relief, Harry inhaled deeply before resuming his course. After his brief encounter with Malfoy, the rest of his trek through the castle was rather uneventful. The corridors were just beginning to show signs of life, small groups of students wandering to their destinations. Nodding and smiling to a laughing quartet of Hufflepuffs, Harry stepped free of the castle and inhaled deeply. His eyes drifted closed at the sweet smell of winter in the air, the scent an intangible testament to the changing of the seasons. Even the morning air had a bite to it, the unexpected briskness causing him to the shoulder deeper into his cloak as he followed the well worn path to the quidditch pitch.

As it always did, the sight of the pitch made his heart leap, his breath catching at the thought of the freedom that came only with flying. Rubbing his palms together, he strode over the emerald grass, his trainers growing damp from the dew that had yet to be chased away by the sun. The long draping cloth that covered the stands fluttered lightly in the morning breeze, each ripple of jewel tone fabric a silent bid to come and play. Harry halted in the center of the pitch and closed his eyes. It was so easy to imagine himself up there on a broom, dipping and diving amongst the clouds with all the freedom and grace of a bird. The wide smile that curved his lips vanished when someone spoke his name sharply, the voice disrupting his reverie.

"Madame Hooch," he mumbled upon opening his eyes and finding the flying instructor standing before him.

"Potter, got yourself in a spot of trouble this morning, eh?" Hooch queried with an amused flash of teeth. "Well, come with me," she said, spinning around and heading off the pitch. She led Harry to a small discreet building that stood behind the Hufflepuff stands.

"The broom shed?" He asked, staring at the closed door.

"Yes, it needs a little cleaning. A little organizing. I was planning on doing it myself, but Minerva volunteered you and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have one of our star players do some of the dirty work for a change." With a large smile, Hooch pulled open the door, revealing the interior of the broom shed in all its glory.

Harry peered through the portal in dismay. When Madame Hooch had stated the nature of the task she'd needed completed, he'd nearly sobbed with relief. Cleaning out the school's broom shed and sorting through its contents had sounded like a walk in the park – a long walk on a warm sunny day with your best mates. However, Harry hadn't had cause to put a foot in the Hogwarts broom shed since his first year, and it appeared his fond memories of those days had clearly not included the jumbled mess he was currently peering into. It was like a much smaller version of the Room of Requirement, the only difference being that everything in the shed was flying or Quidditch related.

"It's a bit of a mess," Hooch said cheerfully over his shoulder. "But if it wasn't, it wouldn't be punishment would it?" With a hearty clap on the back, the Flying Instructor turned and left him to it.

With a growing sense of trepidation, Harry eased into the doorway of the shed, placing his palms gingerly on the frame. Brooms of every brand and design were strewn about the squat building and the floorboards were almost concealed beneath a layer of broken bristles. He didn't know where to begin, he realized, easing further into the shed. From the depths of the building came a soft rustle, and Harry had to bite down the yelp that threatened to spill from his mouth. Dragging his wand from a pocket, he whispered lumos and stepped boldly forward, almost tripping over the shaft of a broom in the process. He was peering into a heavily shadowed corner when a loud scuff sent him careening around with a racing heart.

"I can't believe McGonagall expects me to spend my Saturday with you," Malfoy spat from the doorway. The blond's nose was in the air and his arms were crossed at his chest, his entire demeaner one of frosty disgust.

Harry didn't quite know how to respond, besides gaping at the Slytherin in stunned silence. What could McGonagall possibly be thinking? Unless she was hoping the pair would do each other in, there really was no good outcome to this situation. "There has to be a mistake," Harry said, fingers clenching around his wand

"McGonagall assured me there wasn't," Draco replied in an angry hiss. The blond swept the interior of the broom shed with a dismissive glance, the brief scan accompanied by a disdainful sniff. With a curled lip, the blond dragged his wand from a sleeve, tapping the point against his fingertips. His gaze slid from the jumbled mess to the raven-haired Gryffindor, his lips pursing as he obviously considered his options. With a fierce smile, he gave a swish and flick of his wand, lifting one of the small trunks to the left of Harry. The narrow chest almost struck the Gryffindor in the hip, would easily have clipped him if he hadn't jumped out of the way.

"Git," Harry muttered, glaring at the smirking Slytherin. He watched in confusion as Malfoy floated the crate out the doorway, following closely behind it until both had vanished around the edge of the door. Frowning, because the thought of the blond actually helping in any way at all was mind boggling, the dark-haired wizard crossed the floor on silent feet and leaned around the door frame. His mouth fell open at finding the Slytherin seated on the trunk next to the door, the blond's back against the wall and his head tipped back. "What do you think you're doing?" Harry demanded, stepping out of the broom shed.

"I helped," Malfoy said, gesturing at the trunk he had gracefully perched himself upon. "And now I'm done helping."

Harry opened his mouth but shut it with a click of teeth. Rolling his eyes, he stepped back into the broom shed and dropped a hand to the knob. He would have loved to slam it in anger, but that would have left him standing in the dark, and with how his day was going, he'd probably trip over a broom handle and knock himself out, leaving him at Malfoy's mercy. He released the knob along with the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and grabbed the nearest stack of brooms, dragging the lot outside and dumping them on the grass. He repeated the trip two more times before pausing to study the untidy stack, considering the best way to sort the odd assortment of brooms. Brow furrowed, he began to pick each broom up and examine it carefully before standing it up against the side of the shed, quickly establishing several different groups based on age and brand and allover appearance. Of course, the entire procedure was done under Malfoy's mostly disinterested gaze, the Slytherin having only made the softest of mumbles at Harry's choices. But Harry didn't expect that that would last forever, so he was more then prepared for when the blond finally spoke.

"That's rubbish," Malfoy stated from his place on the trunk.

Harry dropped his eyes to the broom he was about to add to the row leaning against the wall, his brow creasing as he found nothing noticeably wrong with the Cleansweep. "It's fine," he snapped, shooting a glare at the blond. With a wag of his head, he added the broom to the row, his fingers hesitating on the handle when Malfoy made a soft scoffing noise. "There's nothing wrong with it," he reiterated.

"If you think so," the Slytherin murmured.

Perhaps it was the blond's tone of voice, or the slight pursing of his lips, but Harry's hand balled into a fist and a small growl rose in this throat. Before he had a chance to reevaluate his train of thought, the Cleansweep was back in his hand and he was marching toward the Quidditch pitch. He spared only a second to shoot the Slytherin a sneer of his own before throwing a leg over the broom and ordering it up. The Cleansweep rose with a noticeable shudder, it's heavy vibration so far from the smooth purr of his own broom that he couldn't help but cringe. Still, to prove Malfoy wrong, he kicked off and began a slow ascent, halting when he hovered alongside the lowest goal hoop. He attempted to swing the broom back around so he could properly glare at Malfoy and almost lost his balance when the Cleansweep was slow to respond. And for the love of Merlin, the Slytherin had noticed. "See?" Harry said confidently, ignoring the satisfied smirk the blond wore. "It's fine."

"Uh-huh," Draco said, putting enough condescension in his voice to make the raven-haired wizard's jaw tighten noticeably. He folded his arms and leaned his head back against the wall of the shed, continuing to stare up at the Gryffindor wizard with an expression of bored disbelief on his face.

Harry's hands tightened on the handle of the broom and his teeth began a slow grind, the urge to return to earth and shove the Cleansweep up the blond's arse almost overpowering. Still, he was already serving detention, and he really didn't want to spend anymore time than necessary with Malfoy. Swinging the broom around, Harry eyed the nearly empty pitch and felt that tickle of excitement at the prospect of speeding across its length. Without a second thought, he leaned forward and felt the Cleansweep respond lethargically, the broom slowly gathering speed as he flew over the neatly manicured lawn. That increased velocity came at a cost, though. What had been a heavy vibration turned into a full on shudder, the Cleansweep practically bucking between his thighs. Doubt over the broom's ability to maintain their current trajectory caused Harry to slowly circle back toward the broom shed, straightening up when he hovered a short distance from the Slytherin. "It's perfectly fine."

And that's when he felt the surge in his palms. It was like being struck by lightning, a rush of unimaginable power that raced up his fingers into his chest and sent his heart leaping. As his vision darkened and stars sparked behind his lids, he felt the broom beneath him give a weak jump before plummeting downward. He had time only to tuck himself into a ball before he struck the ground, the impact sending him tumbling over the grass. The air rushed from his lungs and he lay blinking up at the blue expanse above him, vaguely aware of Malfoy's gloating voice carrying across the short distance between them, the words chasing him into darkness.

"I told you so."

* * *

A/n: A short excuse: I had a baby. Babies are time consuming. Sorry, and thank you, as always, for the reviews.


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